


Through the Woods

by Shrift (LFN_Archivist)



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 15:17:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17490350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFN_Archivist/pseuds/Shrift
Summary: This story was originally posted to the LFN Storyboard Archives by Shrift.





	Through the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Beyond the Pale spoilers.

Prologue

Despite the fact that Michael had filled her in on the mission specifications at her apartment, after she had hastily tugged on her clothes upon waking and pointing her gun at Michael's shadowed face, Nikita found that she couldn't stop fantasizing as they trudged through the snow. An old Christmas song had inserted itself into her head; Nikita imagined that she and Michael were traveling "over a river and through the woods to grandmother's house," even if it _was_ ridiculous. Even if she never knew her grandmother. Even if it was a mission. 

Her leg pressed against Michael's hard thigh in the dusty truck that slowed to pick them up alongside the dirt road for a few minutes, reminding her that she and Michael were without surveillance. 

"Our car broke down a few miles back," she had said, smiling broadly at the man driving the truck as she clambered onto the cluttered seat. 

"We've had problems with the alternator," Michael said, stepping in behind her. The driver had nodded in typical male camaraderie and replied to Michael in French. They chatted companionably over Nikita's head for almost a half an hour. Nikita chewed on her lower lip and watched the road over her sunglasses, pinpointing their location and calculating the amount of time until she and Michael could be alone. 

Nikita swallowed reflexively at the thought. Alone with Michael. Without cameras. What would he be like, after all that had happened? Where was he taking her? And why, really? 

He told you why, her mind answered. He _wants_ you. 

But does he still _need_ me? she replied internally. And which one is better, need or want? 

The truck pulled onto the shoulder. Michael held the door open for Nikita and slammed it shut behind her after they both thanked the driver. Nikita stared at Michael's brown, corduroy-covered back as he began striding down the empty road. 

Over the river and through the woods, she thought. But where are we going to end up? 

************ 

She couldn't help it, the defensive stance she took as Michael's gloved hands opened the shutters on the stone cottage. She was still steeled for an enemy attack, glancing around the surrounding terrain as Michael pushed in the unlocked, white door. 

Reassured by Michael's calm presence, a smile crept over Nikita's worried features. "How did you find this place?" 

"I saw it when we were doing aerial reconnaissance," he replied, the heels of his boots thudding on the wooden floor. "I noticed it because it was over 50 kilometers from the population zone." 

Nikita's lips twisted at Michael's comment, glad that her back was still angled towards him. 

Yeah, Michael. I know how much of a people-person you are. 

"Who owns it?" 

Michael's hands scooped into a pile of tinder. "I do." 

Nikita wheeled, staring at Michael's crouched figure. More surprise than she realized crept into her voice. "Really?" 

This second personal dwelling she had ever seen of Michael's definitely seemed...homier. If that was a word. Nikita gave a quick mental shrug. Who cares if it's a word? I always make things up as I go along. 

"And I bought the land around it. A hundred acres." 

Nikita blinked, processing the information. The sheer cost. The improbability of Michael owning a cabin in the woods. The way his brown jeans clung to his figure as he crouched in front of the wood-burning stove. 

Nikita began walking around the cottage, attempting to shake her recalcitrant thoughts from Michael's taut thighs. "I like it," she announced a moment later, for lack of anything better to say. She opened a door to reveal a shiny, black truck. "Oh, it must be beautiful here in the summer." 

When Michael didn't reply, Nikita knew she should change the subject from anything that sounded like a long-term plan. She watched Michael's shoulders as he placed another block of wood in the stove. 

"These look like they've been around," Nikita announced, kneeling in front of an old record player. She pulled out an album at random and glanced at the cover, slipping the record onto the turnstile. Nikita seated herself on the couch as the French singer began belting out a melancholy song, watching Michael chop vegetables for dinner. 

Is there anything this man _can't_ do? Nikita pondered, biting a hangnail and snuggling deeper into the old couch. I wonder if he does kitchen floors, and if he'd charge extra on the hourly rate if I asked him to wax the floor with his shirt off. 

"I didn't realize you had such talent in the kitchen, Michael," she blurted. No small wonder. The only non-combustible thing she'd ever seen him prepare was orange juice. 

"There's still a lot of things that you don't know about me," Michael murmured, flicking his eyes up from the food he was preparing. "Maybe it's time you learned." 

Nikita sat back on the couch and digested Michael's proffered bit of information about himself while he prepared dinner. Unconsciously, her eyes followed his movements around the rudimentary kitchen. 

She pulled at her lower lip, trying to recall all the things she _did_ know about Michael, aside from the fact that he was an incandescently wonderful lover. He was French, incarcerated for a student protest bombing before turning twenty. His parents had died when he was young. He had been trained by Jurgen. He had a wife in Section named Simone, who had died twice. He was a Class Five Operative, Team Leader and strategist. He liked coffee and wore ugly ties. Could seduce a woman at the drop of a hat. Had been forced to marry and produce little Adam. He had a much younger sister. He _did_ have nightmares. And whenever he was outside of Section, he seemed to favor the color brown. 

The corner of Nikita's mouth kicked up as she realized that her answer to a memory-impaired Michael still stood. She didn't really know him at all. 

He liked the color brown, and he drank coffee. 

Of course, I don't have access to Michael's psych file, Nikita consoled herself. She pulled her thighs up to her chest and propped her chin on her knees. 

But maybe it _was_ time she started paying attention to what Michael was trying to tell her. How could she love a man she didn't know? 

************ 

Nikita seated herself on the couch, staring into the fire with a pleasantly full stomach. Michael had prepared a full, vegetarian meal from the contents of his backpack. Meat might have spoiled due to their uncertain timeline. Still, he had managed to concoct a delicious meal out of very little. 

What have I learned from this? Nikita asked herself, wrapping her arms around her midsection and burrowing into her sweater. The man can cook. And he's always prepared. 

Nikita smiled a little to herself, remembering a recent time when she had caught Michael off-guard. That small, clinging kiss after he had helped her save her mother's life had genuinely taken Michael by surprise. He had seemed like he didn't know what to do, like he was at a loss. 

I wonder if I'm becoming less predictable? Nikita mused. 

The door creaked slightly and Nikita was assaulted by a chilly blast of air as Michael stepped into the cabin. Her eyes followed him again as he kneeled to place the wood on the floor next to the stove. Nikita felt consumed to analyze him, his every move. He seemed...different out here. Warmer, more open with his replies, but there was something she couldn't put her finger on yet. Perhaps it was his reply when she asked him why he was running from Section. 

_"In Section, you either move up or move out."_

She _had_ understood, sort of, that he was playing a power game by trekking through the woods, letting Section know that he _had_ power and was not afraid to use it. But her intuition told her something was hinky, and Nikita knew better than to ask him what was wrong point blank. 

"How long do you think we'll stay here?" 

"Not long enough," he said softly, seating himself next to her on the couch. 

Driven by some mischievous urge at his answer, Nikita sat up and rested her head on Michael's hard thigh. The fabric was still cold from the winter air. She flicked her blue eyes at his face for a moment to see his impenetrable expression. Maybe she just wanted to know what he would do if she tried to get close. Maybe she was testing him. 

Or maybe, Nikita admitted, I just want to touch him and make sure he's real. 

"I'm so glad you bought me here," she said finally, feeling his eyes on her as she turned her face back to the fire. "I wish we could stay." 

His thigh tensed momentarily, the rough fabric pressing her ear against her skull. "Let's not think about the future. Let's just enjoy this while it lasts." 

His words made her shiver. He was warning her of instability, telling her to take what she could get. _While it lasts_. Nikita shivered again, searching for some way to change the topic and explain her behavior. She wasn't ready for him to know she was beginning to catch on to whatever this mission was all about. "You know, I couldn't get that window closed today." 

Michael sat back, the tight muscle in his thigh relaxing slightly. "I've got to go into town tomorrow and get some things. I'll pick up a new latch." 

So Michael is handy around a house, too? her brain quipped. Why, suddenly, is he acting like we'll be here for a long time? Living in the moment? Living in a fantasy is more like it. 

"So I'll be cold tonight, then," Nikita drawled, unable to keep from pushing Michael again. She felt Michael's muscles flex underneath her and then a soft blanket settled over her body. Nikita allowed herself to smile. She had given him a blaring invitation, and he had answered with a blanket. Nikita mentally added another piece to the puzzle. 

"Thank you." She felt his eyes on her again as she rearranged the blanket, almost jumping out of her skin as his hand came to rest on her shoulder. His fingers moved imperceptibly over the blanket, gently massaging the flesh buried beneath a blanket and a thick sweater. 

He's holding back for some reason, but he's not immune, she realized. 

He wants me. 

************ 

Nikita followed Michael up the stairs, eyes roving from his broad back to the flickering candle she held in her hand. She stood at the landing while Michael walked to the bed, admiring his loose stride. Nikita hesitated a moment and skirted the foot of the bed to sit on the opposite side. It didn't seem right. Michael always claimed the left side of the bed. 

Oh, God, she thought. How many fantasies have I had of this? Being with Michael in a secluded cabin. Candlelight. Cuddling for warmth as the snow falls outside. 

The chair next to the bed creaked and Michael's shoes thudded softly on the floor. She turned at the sound and slanted him an apprehensive gaze. Nikita's head drooped and she furrowed her fingers through her hair. 

Too many fantasies, that's how many, she told herself. So many that I'm having trouble separating my dreams from reality. 

She could feel her eyes filling with tears of confusion, frustration. She knew, _knew_ something was wrong. 

"How is this going to work?" Nikita blurted. The skin on her back where she knew his eyes were focused quivered. 

"We can be careful...take things slowly." 

Nikita nodded to herself, instinctively feeling his eyes slide away from her. See, you expected this. He's warning you again. Variation sixty-four of, "Be patient." 

What if I don't want to be patient? What if I know the consequences, and want him anyway? 

Nikita craned her neck around and smiled at Michael's profile. "There's another option, I mean," she paused, wondering if she should say it after all. "We can live the day like it's our last." 

Michael sighed softly and turned the full force of his gray-green eyes on her. "It very well could be." 

Nikita swung around to meet his gaze, desperately trying to read between the lines. She had to know what he wanted her to do, what he meant. She needed to know if this was like the Armel mission, if he wanted her to make the first move. 

The quiet agony of Michael's eyes made her turn away. She fumbled on the edge of the bed for a moment and angled her body to lay down on the squeaky mattress. He wanted her to let things be; his eyes were dark with sadness, tinged with guilt. He was going to manipulate her somehow in the near future, and he didn't want her to confuse his desire for her with the coming betrayal. 

Nikita gulped back a sob, the sound covered by the whisper of Michael pulling off his turtleneck shirt. There was a quick puff of air as he blew out the candle on his side. The mattress sagged as he climbed into bed. Nikita tried to check her roll towards him, relieved that when she bumped against his arm and hip that he was beneath the covers already. Giving in to the inevitable, Nikita wiggled out of her pants and tossed them onto a chair. She dove under the covers quickly, trying to keep an open space between their bodies. Nikita could feel Michael settling in beside her on his back. She turned away and curled into a tense fetal position on her side, straining her neck to blow out the candle. 

She couldn't touch him. If she did, she knew she would lose the battle to temptation and try to coax more from Michael than he was willing to give. And her pride wouldn't let her do that. 

"Nikita." 

Her eyes snapped open, muscles tensing painfully. "Yes?" 

The covers rustled and Michael let out a small sigh. "Come here." 

Nikita raised her head to look at him, squinting at the angles of his face through the shadows. "I thought you wanted to take things slowly," she taunted. 

And I'm wearing long underwear, buddy. It'll take a lot to get me out of them, _now_. 

He sighed again, eyes glittering in the faint light. "Slowly does not mean starting over, Nikita. Come here." 

Nikita paused, wondering if she was in for more torment if she acquiesced to his command. 

What have you got to lose? she demanded of herself. Certainly not pride -- he asked you first. 

Nikita let out a small huff of frustration and flipped over onto her back. Michael slipped his arm under her shoulders and turned her towards his body, gently pressing her head onto his bare chest. Nikita's right arm crept across his skin to slide under his side, hugging his body to her chest. His lips brushed across the top of her head, his hand sliding down to her waist. 

"Good night, Nikita." 

She buried her nose against his warm skin and inhaled, finally relaxing as the length of his body pressed against hers. Her lips brushed his skin as she whispered an answering good night. 

************ 

Her sleep had been riddled with vague dreams of hiking through snow-capped, mossy trees, interspersed with erotic dreams of Michael. More than once through the night, her heart had spiraled down in her ribcage when she would suddenly awaken to find herself sprawled over Michael's hard body. His warmth, his subtle scent, his very _nearness_ stirred her subconscious into overdrive. Nikita had been unable to tell, each time she awoke, if there had been a sound to startle her out of her sleep, or if Michael had moved. Or if she had called out his name in drowsy ecstasy. 

Nikita felt herself coming awake again, and stretched her arms with coltish grace. Her lips curved into a smile as she imagined waking up next to Michael. Sharing a bed with him, even without making love, had rejuvenated her senses. The crackling of electricity between them had not detracted from her rest; it never did. Whenever she touched Michael, Nikita instinctively knew that there was a chemistry between them, that they were kinetic. They were connected on some level where their bodies seemed to resonate together. 

Blindly, Nikita sought that connection, her hand passing over the sleep-rumpled sheets. The smile melted from her face as she sat up, blinking at the depression in the bed where Michael had lain. 

I was looking forward to waking up before him so I could watch him sleep, Nikita admitted to herself. He looks so angelic when he sleeps. I wanted to keep that in mind when whatever is supposed to happen blows up in my face. 

Nikita slipped her bare feet onto the floor, flinching slightly from the contact with the cold wood. She tugged her pants on, cold fingers clumsy with the button. 

"Michael?" Her voice seemed muffled in the cabin, but she knew he would be able to hear her unless he was outside gathering more wood. Nikita's feet shushed down the steps, her eyes scanning the room for Michael's familiar figure. 

The cool grip of her gun made Nikita feel a little bit more in control as she aimlessly looked around. She prowled to the window, peering out into the whiteness to see if there were fresh tracks on the rutted path that served as a driveway. Nikita squinted and looked again. Disturbed, she turned away to begin another circuit of the cabin when a piece of paper caught her eye. Nikita moved back and shifted the weight holding it in place. 

_"Went to town. Be back by noon."_

I don't think I've ever seen Michael's handwriting, Nikita pondered. It's not all that unlikely. I don't think there are any ink pens in Section. Nikita cocked her head and stared at the note. Still, you'd think he'd have perfect penmanship, but he writes like a guy, after all. 

Nikita let out a soft grunt of disgust and paced across the living room. Somehow, she _knew_ Michael wasn't coming back from town, but that he would have returned if he could. Something had been set in play... 

"But I don't know _what_!" Nikita growled, fisting her free hand through her tousled blonde hair. Nikita strode back to the window, hitching her hip up onto the counter. She propped her gun hand against her chin. 

She wanted Michael to return with the latch for the window. She wanted to stay here for a long time, learning all the little things that made up Michael's personality. She had finally admitted that he _had_ one, and didn't want to stop discovering now. She wanted Michael without reservations, without manipulations. 

"Why do I always want what I can't have?" Nikita said out loud, blindly staring through the window panes. Her fist thumped down on the counter. "And why didn't I hear him leave?" 

Okay, so think, she told herself. What could possibly be going on? Why would Michael leave Section with only you and a field router? What about Adam? 

Think, Nikita, she ordered her brain. Think. It looks like you've got a lot of time to kill. 

************ 

Michael spotted the Section personnel before he left the tiny general store. Steeling himself for the inevitable, he stepped outside, bags in hand. It was over in a moment, the tranquilizer dart buried in the fleshy part of his shoulder as he collapsed into the dirty snow. The capture could have been avoided. There was a back exit to the store, and Michael had evaded retrieval before during mandatory refusal by sucking the tranquilizers from his forearm. Michael was rarely captured unless he wanted to be. 

Operations had assured Michael that if he were brought in this way, Zalman would be too busy rubbing his hands together in glee to question how easy it was. Michael had no choice but to concur with the assessment, considering that Madeline was out of the loop. Standing there in Operations' eyrie, Michael had wondered what had prompted Operations to jerk Madeline's chain, then abruptly severed the train of thought. Michael honestly had not wanted to know. 

Michael stoically endured the stripping off of his jacket, drugs making him too sluggish to respond. Two operatives carefully buckled him into a straight jacket for the journey back to Section One, snapping his ankles into restraints once his arms were immobilized. Michael was faintly amused by the straight jacket; he hadn't worn one for quite some time. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the van, successfully ignoring the covert glances of pity and surprise by the other operatives inside. 

They were frightened of him, and maybe, a little _for_ him. 

Michael had no illusions about his reputation with the majority of Section personnel; he was a sort of demigod, usually feared and sometimes respected. But he had no _friends_ in Section like Nikita did, friends who would sacrifice their lives for him. Nikita made it seem easier than breathing. 

Michael also had no illusions about the fact that if Nikita ever truly turned against him, his only friend in Section would be Madeline. That thought made Michael's guts clench. 

He didn't want to think anymore. Thinking about the coming torture was worse than the actual pain. Thinking sparked hope, hope that Zalman had made a mistake and revealed his Red Cell alliances. Hope that he would be released upon his return to Section to retrieve Nikita. Hope was what broke most people under interrogation, the hope that promises made would be kept. Rather than think, Michael focused his eyes on a blank part of the van wall. Motionless but for the slow blinking of his eyes. 

At van access, Michael felt faint pleasure in being able to stretch his legs again as two operatives escorted him into Section. Operations and Madeline were waiting. Michael's gray eyes caught Walter loitering off to the side. Michael halted his forward motion, equidistant to all parties. Zalman stood opposite Operations, thin mouth curved in a cocky sneer. Michael ignored him, fixing his gaze on Operations' craggy visage. He didn't look at Madeline or Walter, either. Madeline would figure out the mission, sooner rather than later, and Walter would be told eventually. 

"You know what's going to happen. Tell us where the router is, Michael." 

Michael remained silent, motionless, staring back at his superior. Operations had risked madness and death recently to take down Philo, another member of Red Cell. He had tried to hide it, but Michael had sensed a feeling of satisfaction in Operations' demeanor when he had handed him the profile for this mission. Operations was getting off, just a little, on the fact that it was Michael's turn to suffer. 

"Take him to containment," Zalman ordered. 

Michael could feel Zalman's eyes on him as two operatives escorted him down the hallway, the tall man fairly vibrating in anticipation. Soon. Soon, their positions would be reversed... 

************ 

Nikita was still chewing on her bottom lip, hip propped on the kitchen counter, when she heard the sound of a truck approaching. Section. It had to be. 

What do I do? she asked herself. What would Michael want me to do? 

Her blue eyes flicked to the window, and she hopped down to retrieve her gun. The click as her clip snapped into place stiffened her resolve. She would hide. What else was there to do? She couldn't flee on foot in the snow, and deep down, she still hoped that Michael would come back with that window latch. 

Nikita hurried across the room, scooping up her backpack and retrieving Michael's bag from the wall hook. She pried up the cellar door and climbed in, dropping into a semi-crouch on the dusty floor. 

The door squeaked open and dust filtered down from the floor as two people entered the cabin. Nikita could hear them walking around, initiating a search pattern. Her pulse pounded in her throat as their footsteps passed near the trap door, getting fainter as the two operatives headed for the stairs. 

"She's not here. Look for the router," came a muffled, male voice. 

The router. Where - 

It's still in the cement block where Michael left it, Nikita realized. And it's the only thing that's keeping Section from finding us... 

Frozen for a moment by indecision, Nikita slowly lifted the trap door and strained to reach the router. Her fingers closed around it, the wood biting into her waist. She ducked back down into the cellar, lowering the trap door with the top of her head. 

Michael showed you how to use it, she told herself. So do it. 

Nikita punched in a code that would shift frequencies and buy her a few moments of time. She heard footsteps stop for a moment and the faint sound of someone swearing. 

"They have the signal blocked off." 

Nikita closed her eyes in relief as she heard the two operatives clomp out of the cabin. She stared at the router, trying to remember everything Michael had told her about it. He had insisted she learn. She remembered being disturbed by his adamant behavior, but had gone along with it. Now Nikita knew that Michael had been preparing her to go on alone. 

The operative had said _she_ initially. Not _they_. It could only mean one thing: they had Michael already. 

So what could _that_ mean? Section One had Michael. Zalman would put him through the wringer to make him reveal her location. Michael wouldn't break, so what could possibly be the point? 

Nikita felt the weight of the field router in her hands and stared at the offending piece of technology. It had to be connected with the router. What had Michael told her about it -- that it could send _and_ receive? And that the router could jam all of Section's frequencies because it had all of its codes... 

Nikita's eyes widened as a thought insinuated itself into her brain. 

If I were a terrorist, getting my hands on this field router would be like having a genie in a bottle with unlimited wishes. One touch of a button, and _poof_...Section would be obsolete. Phenomenal cosmic power to the twisted son-of-a-bitch who liked to blow up cafes and metro lines. 

Nikita put the router on the ground, the feeling of it distasteful to her now. It had been so easy to lift from Walter, and it was such an important piece of equipment. 

So that's what this is all about, Nikita thought. Michael and I escaped with this to act as bait to someone. Someone in Section. What the hell am I going to do when that someone gets here? 

************ 

Michael sat calmly in the uncomfortable metal chair, feeling the sweat trickling down the hair at his temples and sliding past his ears. Sweat was pooling in his navel, running down his sides, and making the small of his back itch. Zalman's dependence upon technology for interrogation almost made Michael's lip curl in professional scorn. Anyone who was leery of getting blood on his hands should not be allowed in the interrogation room. It was obvious Zalman enjoyed the pain of others; he got off on it. Cowards always did. 

Michael's eyes caught the movement of Zalman's thumb and he prepared himself for the shock. The burning, metallic pain was nothing to him. He knew this torture wasn't quite _real_ , and Michael had endured much worse and kept a blank expression. He let a few choked sounds escape his lips to keep Zalman from losing heart. 

Zalman needed to think he would break. He needed to think that Michael had already snapped and would be despondent, like he had escaped Section with the love of his life and had been recaptured... 

Zalman dropped his little black box of pain in frustration. "Is she really worth all this, Michael, or would she do even half as much for you?" 

Michael let some of his scorn slip into his face and Zalman turned away in disgust, shaking his head. Zalman was a fool, even if Operations had heavily edited the personnel files he had provided for the new strategist. Nikita had broken under torture for him during Section's war with Red Cell. She was worth ten of Michael, and if Zalman could not see that, he was not only a fool: he was an idiot. 

"You know, they briefed me about the two of you. Michael and Nikita. Nikita and Michael," Zalman drawled. Michael suppressed a brief quirk of his lips. He was an idiot, but even Zalman realized how perfectly their names fit together. Zalman's eyes became calculating as he continued. "But having read your file, I must tell you, I'm surprised." 

Surprised? Michael thought, knowing that the contents of his file were impressively cold-blooded. No more surprised than I was. 

Zalman shook his head at Michael's faint show of anger. It wasn't what the torturer wanted. "This is for what, hmm? Love?" 

It is only partly about love, Michael thought, and Operations' exploitation of it. 

"You?" Zalman continued, his British accent heavy in his condescension. 

Yes, _me_ , he thought. 

Michael's eyes flared imperceptibly in remembrance of all the times he had answered that question. Whenever Michael had a terrorist by the throat who asked a stupid question, he took a perverse pleasure in stating the obvious. Yes. Me. 

Zalman looked down his nose at Michael with a smug smile suppressed behind his lips. "I find that very hard to believe." 

The door swung inward and two, dark-suited operatives stepped through. The Torture Twins moved to the room's table, sporting black-rimmed spectacles that doubled as splatter guards. 

"Either I severely misread you, or this is all about something else," Zalman continued. 

Correct, Zalman, Michael thought. On both counts. 

"Where is she?" 

Michael kept his face impassive, ignoring the pinpricks of sweat that broke out on his forehead at the effort. He was tired; Nikita had been murmuring his name all night, her body draped over his like she was afraid he was going to disappear before morning arrived. Michael couldn't remember a time when a woman drooling on his chest had turned him on. Only Nikita. 

Michael's attention was drawn back to the white room as Zalman turned his head towards the two torture specialists. " Make it extremely unpleasant." 

The two operatives slowly turned to stare at Michael's sweat-sheened face as the door closed behind him. 

************ 

The two operatives stood before Michael's tired body, expressions no longer blank as Zalman's back disappeared around the corner. Frick and Frack. The Torture Twins. Bryce and Donna. Michael knew exactly what the two used to create the slits under a target's eyes. His jaw clenched slightly in preparation. The sensation was far from pleasant. To receive a thousand paper cuts sprayed with ammonia, one might come close to understanding. 

Surprise jolted down Michael's spine as Donna's face unthawed into a minute expression of sorrow. She didn't want to hurt him. 

That is just fine by me, Michael thought ridiculously. I don't want Donna to hurt me, either. 

Bryce cleared his throat and spun on his heel towards his valise. Michael blinked at the two unevenly matched twins. Perhaps weariness was making his perception off-kilter. They never failed to move in tandem unless the torture sessions required special equipment. But this...Michael had never seen this. Bryce and Donna seemed to _care_. 

"Is he monitoring?" Donna asked, angling her sharp face to the nearest surveillance camera. 

Birkoff's voice sound tinny as he replied. "No, he's in Operations' office." 

Donna gave Bryce a slight nod and they locked eyes for a moment, before turning back to stare at Michael with their backs stiff. They still didn't make a move towards him. Michael managed to catch Donna's gaze, and flicked his eyes toward the camera. They still had to put on a show if things didn't work out as planned. Her thin lips twisted in agreement; she whirled and extracted a device from her valise, approaching Michael so that the camera was to her back. 

Donna placed the circular tool on the inside of his thigh, her right hand grasping Michael's knee. She gave him a warning squeeze, but Michael didn't need her to tell him to pretend it was hurting like hell. Had Donna actually turned the device on and pierced his skin, it would have delivered a shot of a special toxin Section had developed. Short-term muscle spasms. The last time Michael had seen it used, the abeyance op had bitten off his own tongue. Very messy. 

Michael felt acid burning in his gut as he faked the muscle spasms, half shocked and pleased that the two torture specialists would go out of their way to keep him from harm, and half frightened. For them, because Michael didn't know the extent of their briefing. And for himself. Bryce and Donna were known to be...inventive when exacting payment on favors rendered. 

Only forty minutes passed before Zalman breezed back into the room with a smirk. He snapped his fingers at the twins, who were standing back in their original positions after being warned of his arrival by Birkoff. 

"Get out," he ordered. 

Michael lifted his head, amusement overcoming his weariness for a moment. Zalman would regret that. _If_ he withstood Michael's interrogation to be subjected to Bryce and Donna. They firmly believed in politeness. So did Michael. 

The slumbering, slow heat of Michael's anger at the tall, smug Brit heaved and roiled. Michael clamped down on the emotion, locking it into place with a precise deliberation borne of familiarity and repetition. But before he could halt the molten flow of sullen anger, six words embedded themselves in his resolve. 

Zalman _will_ learn to be polite. . ************ 

Michael rested his head on the back of the chair, eyes dull as he stared back at Zalman. The minutes clicked by on the taller man's watch, echoing in the sparsely furnished white room. Michael met Zalman's gaze, holding it until his interrogator took a breath to speak. 

"A very impressive showing Michael, and all this for a second-rate, blonde whore." 

Nikita? A second-rate whore? Michael thought. I wonder how long it took him to analyze the effectiveness of that particular insult on my psyche. Will he make fun Nikita's shoe size now, or inform me her hair coloring is not natural? 

"I mean, with so many important things in the world worth dying for..." Zalman trailed off. 

Important things? Michael thought. Like world peace and the greater good? I have tried dying for those reasons, but Nikita's not the only one who didn't receive her merit badge in the mail. 

Zalman chuckled a little to himself and Michael was immediately on guard. "Oh, that reminds me. Before you _do_ die, there is something you need to take a look at." Zalman smirked and walked towards the monitor mounted in the white wall. "Special presentation, Michael. A live feed just for you." 

Michael didn't need to look at the screen to understand what was happening, so he averted his face as long as he could. This was Operations' doing. His maneuvering was like a fist to the gut; you could see it coming and it brought immediate suffering. Operations always concocted blunt, short-term pain to get what he wanted. Madeline was far more subtle. Her manipulations were a labyrinthine series of stiletto pricks to a major organ, damaging something essential and retreating to allow the wound to fester on its own. 

Michael had endured both their punishments, and far preferred Operations' method. Ten years down the road, this manipulation would be a faint memory; but had Madeline done the maneuvering, Michael would still be grappling with the ramifications. 

The second hand on Zalman's watch ticked away while Zalman smirked at his averted face. "You know, as far as I thought I'd been, I had no idea until about an hour ago...that you had a son." Zalman uttered the words slowly for maximum impact, lips curling into a smug smile. 

Michael knew it was time and turned his head toward the monitor. His lips parted and he sighed from the rush of emotion that he had known would come, a welling of grief and raw love. Adam. Michael's gray-green eyes lovingly took in every detail of his son; Elena had let his hair grow out longer, like his Daddy's had been. Michael's heart stuttered with a choking pride as he saw that Adam's skill at soccer had improved over the months. He looked healthy. Happy. Like he didn't miss his father at all. 

"Now _that_ is something worth dying for," Zalman said, sounding pleased with himself. 

Not something, Michael thought fiercely. _Someone_. My beautiful son. 

His pain leaked into his features as Michael stared at a close-up of his son. Adam needed his father, but he was better off without him. 

"Something worth living for," Zalman continued, his sharp eyes focusing on Michael's weary face. He waited a moment until Michael met his gaze, smirking again. "I know you try not to be concerned with what other people think. So hate me, until your dying breath if you must --" 

Michael blinked at his interrogator, curious as to how the man had risen through the ranks when he was so mistaken about the way Michael operated. Even now, Michael didn't hate Zalman. He felt...irritation. Contempt. Hate was reserved solely for himself, for what he was. What he had been, and would become. 

"But you may not want to take that dying breath until you're absolutely sure that your son is safe from the likes of me." 

Michael's eyes were drawn back to the screen, back to the face of his son. It might be the last time he allowed himself to view surveillance of his family. Michael waited until Adam smiled and then closed his eyes, keeping the image behind his eyelids. 

"Game over, Michael. Where's Nikita?" 

Michael's eyelids sprung open and he memorized Zalman's British face. His lips moved in a silent curse. 

Zalman grinned and lightly shook his head. "I'm sorry, Michael. I can't hear you. _Speak up_." 

Michael let go of all his pain and it flooded his system, dripping from his pores and crippling his ability to move. Giving Nikita up, even under false pretenses, stripped all of his protective barriers away. It _hurt_. "She's at a farmhouse. Five kilometers...west of town." 

"Good," Zalman cooed. He leaned in to pat Michael on the cheek with his soft palm before turning on his heel and racing out the door. 

Michael turned his head and stared at Zalman's disappearing back. Waiting. Waiting to be released. Waiting to retrieve Nikita personally, no matter what the cost to his injuries. Waiting, and hoping. 

Please, Nikita. Please have thought this through, Michael begged. 

Please know I had no choice. 

************ 

Nikita sat with her hip up on the counter again, shrouded in darkness. Her thumb absently caressed the metal of her gun, warm from the heat of her hand. Nikita stared at the window, on guard for Section to return. Her brow was furrowed in worry for Michael, for what she was certain he was enduring for the sake of the mission. The profile could have called for her capture instead. Frankly, Nikita thought it would have been more believable for _her_ to break under torture. She had done it before. 

Shadows flitted at the periphery of her vision and Nikita's head snapped around. Black-clad operatives were coming towards the house in a crouching run, automatic weapons piercing the glass of the window. Instinctively, Nikita fired back. Two operatives fell. 

The recoil is all wrong, Nikita thought, fingers tensing around her gun. And the bullets don't sound right. 

Nikita dove to the floor as the door burst open, firing a few more rounds as her back thumped on the wood. 

Blanks, Nikita realized as an operative towered over her, his gun aimed between her eyes. I guess that means it's time to put on a performance worthy of the Academy Awards. 

"How did you find me?" Nikita fought for, and kept, a confused tone, empty hands raised in supplication. 

"Michael gave you up," he replied. 

He looks vaguely familiar. Abeyance Op, probably. 

Nikita shook her head and smiled up at the operative. "I don't believe that." Nikita held herself still as the two operatives inside the house jerked and fell. 

"Zalman!" Nikita breathed. 

Damnit, she told herself. You should have seen _that_ coming from a mile away, Nikita! Why else would they promote that unctuous twit over Michael? 

"It's over, Nikita. Where is the field router?" 

"You killed your own team!" she said, stalling for time. 

In other words, you can kiss my ass, you wanker, Nikita snarled to herself as Zalman shook his head. 

"Not my team. Now where is the field router?" 

Not his team? Nikita asked herself. Oh. I think I get it now. 

"You're Red Cell," Nikita sighed, her voice reedy from lack of sleep. 

Zalman's thin lips quirked into a grin. "You know what they say. Don't give up the day job." He stepped closer, his thin length reminding her of the Scarecrow from _The Wizard of Oz_. 

Scratch that, she thought. He's one of the flying monkeys. All the way. 

"What is it about you people?" Zalman drawled, his cruel eyes narrowing in a look Nikita recognized from her time on the street. The same look a pervert gave before taking advantage of the helpless. "Michael...you...what is it that convinces you that all this is worth dying for?" 

What do you mean, besides the fact that it's 'do or die'? Nikita thought snidely. 

"It's people like you," she answered instead, feeling the truth in her bones as Zalman nodded and leaned in close. 

"At this very moment, Michael is strapped into a chair. Waiting. If I were to go back empty-handed..." 

Nikita jerked away as Zalman brushed his clammy lips over hers, struggling underneath him. She felt bile rise in the back of her throat as his hands dug through her clothing. 

Michael is somewhere, hurting, and this smarmy double agent is being fed rope to hang himself, Nikita thought. If this mission doesn't achieve closure, I'm going to spike Operations' coffee with Metamucil for the rest of my natural life. 

Zalman's fingers closed around the router deep in the pocket of Nikita's coat, and he pulled her to her feet. "I suppose, now that I have this, my rising career at Section One will come to an end." 

You'll be missed, Nikita thought. 

"You know, the amazing thing about this unit is that it transmits and receives simultaneously. But when I turn this on Nikita, they'll think they've located you." Zalman leaned in and pressed his lips to hers again, bending to kiss her neck. "It should take them about an hour to get here, would you say?" 

************ 

Nikita wanted nothing more than to hook her foot behind Zalman's ankle to disarm the bastard and deposit him on the floor. She knew she could do it, but wasn't sure she _should_. 

Nikita's nerve ends buzzed and the repugnant feel of Zalman's lips on her skin faded away as she saw Michael carefully push in the wooden door. He looked exhausted, with dark rings under his eyes, stepping in that precise gait. Her blue eyes caressed his face as he drew nearer, her heart jumping at the expression on his face when Michael raised his gun to Zalman's back. 

Nikita suddenly felt a tired vindication as Zalman froze, the other operatives standing up from their prone positions on the ground. Michael was going to make Zalman wish he had never been born. 

"It can't be," Zalman gasped, looking at her and Michael's stony expressions. 

"You think about it long enough, and it'll come to you," Nikita drawled. 

Just like it came to me, she added. Now for what's been coming to you... 

She drew her hand back and gave Zalman a satisfying smack across the face before two operatives came forward and escorted him from the cabin. When the door banged shut, Nikita dropped her eyes to the floor as she realized she and Michael were alone in the house. Her scalp prickled with the force of Michael's gaze, and Nikita made herself to raise her chin and meet his eyes. 

He was waiting, eyes dark with quiet agony, to find out how she was going to react. Waiting to find out if she was all right. 

"Good timing, Michael," Nikita said, attempting to sound conversational. "Thank you." 

His lips parted with a soft exhalation of breath, eyes flaring to a very green under fluttering eyelashes. Every time Nikita thanked him, Michael was assaulted with a paralyzing emotional jumble. 

He stared at her for few breaths of time before shifting a step closer. "Nikita..." 

"Yes, Michael?" 

He took another step so that her shoulders were perpendicular to his chest, almost touching. His eyes seemed to be examining her neck, hands clasped behind him. "What memories will you have of the house?" he asked finally, darting his eyes up to meet her gaze. 

"Memories?" Nikita repeated, looking away to glance around the dim interior of the cabin. She looked back to see he was serious. "Good memories," she decided firmly. "What about you, Michael? What'll you remember when you think of this house?" 

He paused, the corner of his mouth curling up in the tiniest of smiles. Nikita was relieved to see that the smile reached his eyes. 

"You." Michael dipped his head and took a step back, his fingers sliding down her sleeve to gently squeeze her forearm. "Let's go." 

************ 

Walter lifted his head at the echo of footsteps, immediately returning his gaze back to the magnifying glass on his workstation. 

"Hi, Walter," Nikita said softly, wandering into munitions. Walter muttered something unintelligible in return and continued soldering. "I'm sorry." 

I hope you can forgive me this, Walter, Nikita thought. I've forgiven you plenty of times in the past. Don't let me down. 

The gray-haired man's shoulders heaved in a sigh and he carefully placed his tools back on the bench. "I know, Sugar." 

"Was it bad?" Nikita asked, moving farther into munitions to prop her hip against a counter. 

Walter flattened his palms on the bench, staring at his fingers while he nodded yes. "But Michael got it worse than me, sweet stuff. Much worse." 

Do I want to know how much worse? Nikita asked herself. 

Nikita plucked at a stray wire and twisted it between her fingers. "Did you watch?" 

"Only until he sent the Twins in," Walter answered, his gravely voice laced with weariness. 

"The Twins?" 

"Yeah. Before those two could really get started on Michael, Zalman came running back from Operations' office with a shit-eating grin on his face," Walter said, angling his head and giving Nikita the _look_ with his pale eyes. The look that demanded she read between the lines. 

"And that's when Michael broke," Nikita stated. 

Walter ran his index finger underneath his black bandanna and gave a sharp nod. "Yeah. I think you can guess the rest, Sugar." 

Operations told Zalman about Adam, Nikita realized. I'll bet Zalman threatened Adam's safety if Michael didn't give me up. He made Michael choose between his son and...a woman he cares for. 

Nikita's fingers closed tightly around the wire she had been twisting, the sharp end where the plastic had been stripped digging into the flesh of her palm. Her eyelids fluttered shut. 

He chose Adam over me. Thank God. I don't think I could live with it if he hadn't, even if this wasn't the real thing. 

"You know, Walter," Nikita began, pushing away from the counter. "I should have _expected_ the rest. I'm sure Michael did." 

"Where's Michael now?" Walter asked, readjusting the magnifying glass over a circuit board. "Making Zalman wish he'd never climbed out from underneath his rock?" 

Nikita grinned at the older man and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "You're still the best part of my day, Walter" 

************ 

Michael strode towards the white room where Zalman was being held, not envying Operations' position. Madeline had not been happy at being left out of this mission and she had already made her displeasure known. She had scheduled Michael for an unnecessary psyche evaluation next week. 

Not for the first time, Michael wished he could arrive at the excoriating evaluation with the better part of a bottle of red wine in his system. He knew he would feel hungover after the interview, without the benefits of alcohol-induced emotional numbness. 

Michael reached the door and pushed it inward, feeling a sense of satisfaction as he saw Zalman strapped into the chair. Bryce and Donna were there, faces blank. Michael had watched the surveillance; until twenty minutes ago, he had never seen the two specialists smile in the middle of a session. Zalman had been extremely polite after Donna's first lesson in proper etiquette. 

Michael murmured his thanks to Bryce and Donna and the two specialists vacated the room. He kept his gaze on Zalman, watching the Red Cell agent shake. The stink of fear permeated the room. Michael continued walking around the trembling man, taking in the red slits under his eyes, the nervous twitches in his fingers. He knew his silence was making Zalman's fear grow and metamorphose into something far more oppressive than the torture had been. 

Zalman knew it was his turn to hurt, and no doubt, he was pondering what he would do to Michael if their situations were reversed. From the amount of white showing in Zalman's eyes, his ideas on revenge were horrible enough to make him vomit. Michael kept his distance; Zalman had already vomited once during the session. 

Michael halted his circular trek facing Zalman's chair, gracefully folding his hands. "I need to ask you a couple of questions. Where is Vincent Tomas? 

Zalman's answer was crisp and immediate. "Belgrade." 

"How many CDs have you installed in Section?" 

"Six." A bead of sweat rolled down Zalman's temple. 

"I need their locations." 

"Yes. Of course." 

Michael stared calmly at Zalman's sweating face as the Red Cell agent tripped over his tongue in his eagerness to tell him exactly where the devices were. When Zalman's final words spilled out, Michael turned on his heel and strode towards the door. 

"Wait!" 

Michael halted mid-stride, staring straight ahead. "Yes?" 

"Will it be quick?" 

Do you think you have already suffered enough pain, Zalman? he thought. Too bad you are a security risk, of which Section needs to rid itself. Otherwise... 

Michael turned his head slightly, waiting a beat before replying. "Quick, yes. But not painless." 

The door groaned shut behind him. 

************ 

Nikita watched Michael's broad back as he poured the wine into the chunky cups she had bought on a whim a month ago. She felt numb watching him, his motions dream-like. Nikita had been in a semi-daze since he showed up on her door step with a bottle of red wine in one hand. She had taken his coat and sniffed at the collar; his scent had turned her knees to liquid. Then they had bumped knees under the table during the meal. And now... 

Nikita barely heard the French music as Michael crossed the room with that uninhibited, sensual walk, holding two wine glasses. His hair curled softly over his collar. 

He's beautiful, Nikita mused to herself. Why does he have to be so beautiful? 

She knew her fingers shook as she accepted the glass from his outstretched hand, her lips somehow remembering how to smile on their own. "Thank you." 

"Dinner was wonderful," Michael said softly, sitting down on the chair across from her. "Thank you." 

We're so disgustingly polite, Nikita thought. We can't even get to the point. 

What _is_ the point? she wondered. Forget that. Just say something. 

"Well, it wasn't as good as the meal you cooked at the cabin..." Nikita trailed off. 

That sounded like I was fishing for another compliment, Nikita realized. Damn. Can I help it if the man can put together a gourmet meal with only a salad shooter and a handful of rice? 

Nikita gulped at her wine as Michael turned his gray-green eyes on her. "I liked it there." 

Nikita smiled and nodded, at a loss for words. The music filled the silence, swelling between them. 

Oh God, Michael. I liked it there, too. We've never done that before, just spending time together. It's always been too intense. 

Nikita averted her gaze and frantically focused on something that wasn't Michael's face, that didn't have all the textures and planes that she desperately wanted to caress. The lines around his eyes, his silky eyebrows, his stubble. 

What does he want from me? Nikita wondered. You can't answer that, Nikita. So what do you want from him? 

I want more than what I'm getting. I can't believe this. I want a commitment. I want him to acknowledge that this isn't a fling. It isn't just lust. 

"You know it can't be casual between you and me," she said slowly. "I can't do that." 

Don't think I wish I could, Michael. But it's too _much_. I can't take all of it inside and keep it there, all of what we are. 

Nikita looked back from the blank space on the wall and met Michael's eyes, and she knew she was lost. 

"I know." 

************ 

Nikita felt her eyes grow hot as Michael lifted one lithely muscled arm in a toast. Automatically, her arm extended her glass. Her eyelids fluttered as he inclined his head towards her and brought the chunky glass cup to his perfect lips. 

Oh, what did that mean, Michael? she cried inwardly. Are you acknowledging that we can't be casual, that we need to be something more? You can't be vague on this; I won't let you. 

The tears threatened to spill out of Nikita's eyes and she lowered her arm without taking a sip. She knew she wouldn't be able to swallow, anyway. Her throat had constricted to a point where she was barely able to draw enough air into her lungs. Despite that, Nikita felt she needed to make a statement. 

"You didn't drink," he said softly. 

Nikita placed her glass on the table, fingers shaking so badly that she spilled a drop on the surface. "What are we drinking to, Michael?" 

God, I sound tired, she thought. Maybe I am tired. I need to know where we stand if I'm going to walk the tightrope in Section for him. 

"Nikita," Michael answered slowly, turning the cup around in his hands. "I've told you before that this won't be easy." 

"I know that," Nikita replied quickly, her irritation getting the better of her. 

Michael sighed and sat back, his shoulders slumping slightly. "What do you want, Nikita?" 

"From you?" Nikita asked quietly. 

Finally. He finally asked me point-blank. 

Michael nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. "From me." 

"I want...I want to know if it could be casual between us. For you." 

Something changed subtly in his face, as if another mask faded away to be replaced with an emotion Nikita couldn't put a name to. "I can't be casual with you, either, Nikita. Believe that." 

"Are you willing to take what you can get, then? Is that was this is going to be?" Nikita asked, drawing her knees up to her chest. 

Michael's muscles flexed and his eyes darkened like he wanted to go to her, to pull her into his arms. Nikita could see the control he exerted to stay seated. "What if that's all we can have, Nikita? Will that be enough?" 

Nikita's eyes roved over his strained face. He would cut himself off without another word if that's what she wanted. She knew it. And she knew it would slowly kill him, his humanity, to do so. He had cut himself off from every single human being he had ever cared for -- was she the last one in his life? 

Nikita closed her eyes at the pain in his face, a pain so sharp she wondered how he had endured it alone for so long. He had been walking on such a thin line, trying to keep her alive and give her what she needed. Michael could never satisfy everyone, especially her. She had never given him a chance. Nikita had never known _how_ to give him a chance. 

I'll fight for you Michael. Not because I'm the only one left who cares, but because I want to do it. I want you. I want to know you. 

Her fear faded, fear of being manipulated. Fear of finally getting what she wanted. Fear that she didn't deserve what she wanted. Fear that he wouldn't be what she wanted once she had him... 

"I'll take what I can get of you, Michael," Nikita finally whispered. "Now what do you want from _me_?" 

Nikita heard his soft intake of breath and the sound of his feet shushing across the floor. His clothing rustled as he crouched down in front of her. Nikita's eyes were still closed, but she could feel his hands hovering over her feet. His hands held a fire that she wanted to be touched by again. His soul held secrets that she wanted to know. 

No more second thoughts, she told herself. It's all or nothing. 

"I want what you have given me, Nikita. A chance." 

************ 

"A...chance?" Nikita's eyes popped open the moment Michael placed his palms on top of her bare feet. 

"Yes. There is no one between us, now, Nikita." 

He was close, angling his head up so she could see the faint circles under his eyes from his torture session. Michael's eyes were a pale shade of green in the subdued light of her apartment. His fingers softly kneaded the flesh at her ankles, the fabric of his dark pants pulled taut over his thighs as he crouched in front of her. 

He's too close, Nikita thought wildly. I can think straight with him this close. 

"Nikita...the entire time I have known you, there has always been someone holding me back." His voice grew even softer, as if his accent smoothed off the edges of the consonants. "Not anymore." 

Abruptly skittish, Nikita darted out her hand for her wine glass. Michael's fingers caught her wrist, fingers circling its slim shape. Nikita felt a hot flush rise up from her neck as Michael's fingers brushed over her veined skin. Michael was rarely the aggressor when it came to touching. His boldness alternately aroused and frightened her into instinctive flight. 

Nikita tugged her wrist free and grabbed at her wine glass, bringing the cup to her lips to take a healthy swig. She avoided Michael's eyes until his fingers pressed against her chin. He rose slightly on his haunches to look into her blood shot eyes. 

"Nikita? I would like it if we took things slowly," he murmured, his gaze flickering from her eyes to her lips. Nikita felt her stomach plummet in her abdomen as her heart seemed to palpitate sideways. 

Oh, jeez, Michael, Nikita moaned inwardly. What did you have to go and do _that_ for? That eyes to the lips trick always gets me. 

"Slowly?" Nikita repeated dumbly. 

He's doing this for me, she realized. Mostly for me. Maybe a little for him. After all, we did start the relationship out backwards. 

"Yes," Michael murmured. 

"Okay," Nikita agreed brightly. She patted the cushion next to her on the couch. 

Two can play this game, Michael. But don't keep me waiting _too_ long. 

Michael rose gracefully from his crouch, eyes glittering down at Nikita until he seated himself on the couch so that their thighs pressed together. She bit at her lower lip for a moment, working out the logistics. Nikita scooted down to the end of the couch; when she turned back, Michael was giving her an unreadable look. 

Nikita patted her lap. "Put your head here." 

The corner of Michael's mouth twitched as he swung his legs up onto the couch and dropped his curly head onto Nikita's thighs. She buried one hand in his silky hair, trailing her fingers through the curling strands; Michael's eyes fluttered shut, casting shadows on his cheeks. The other hand danced over his face, tracing down the aristocratic contour of his nose and the fullness of his lips. Nikita felt those lips curve into a smile under her hand. 

"Tell me when it's my turn, Nikita." 

Epilogue 

Nikita's fingers continued to gently stroke over the planes of Michael's face, his warm breath tickling her palm and wrist. He had been able to conceal his weariness beneath a protective mask, but soon after Michael's eyes closed, sleep overtook him. Nikita didn't mind having Section's top operative asleep on her couch, his curly head in her warmed lap. Michael's steady breathing soothed her, and his willingness to drop his guard to actually _sleep_ in her apartment made Nikita very hopeful about the future. 

She felt like she and Michael were finally emerging from the woods they had entered when the mission had truly begun. Nikita had gone into that mission blind and hesitantly in love. Now... 

Well, what have you learned from all this? she asked herself as one hand absently pulled at Michael's curls. 

He shifted slightly in his sleep, arching his neck so that his right cheek rested on her thigh. Nikita reached out and traced the shell of his left ear with her forefinger. 

I already knew he was beautiful. Lonely. Brave. 

And a control freak, Nikita reminded herself. But we've all got our problems. 

"I hope we don't disappoint each other too much, Michael," Nikita whispered, her fingers tracing along Michael's jaw. 

Well, I hope you don't disappoint _me_ too much. I know you well enough now to understand that you expect nothing for yourself, Nikita thought. 

Still, I don't want you to wallow in your misery, Michael. We've got to teach each other how to live again as part of a whole, rather than a missing piece. We've got to figure out what to do, now that we're out of those damn woods. Being in limbo with you is familiar. Working toward a relationship...talk about uncharted territory. 

"Okay, Michael," Nikita murmured, caressing his closed eyelids with her pinky finger. "It's your turn." She stared down at his face, the lack of tension making him appear younger. Vulnerable. 

A moment later, Michael inhaled slightly in his sleep and turned his face farther towards her abdomen. His right hand slid behind her on the couch, fingers finding their way under her shirt to caress her spine. Michael took another deep breath, his face burrowing into her navel. Nikita felt his lips move through the fabric of her shirt and curled her spine to catch his voice; her breath caught in her throat as his lips moved again on the slight curve of her tummy. 

"'Kita." 

All of Nikita's reserve burnt itself up in the moment she recognized her name on his lips. Carefully as not to wake him, Nikita slid her right leg underneath Michael until she cradled him between her thighs. She inched herself down until Michael's head lay pillowed between her breasts, his ear pressed to the beating of her heart. Nikita ran her fingers down an arm that had automatically wrapped itself around her middle. 

"That was a very good start, Michael," she whispered. "What's next?" 

His eyelids fluttered at her voice, nose nuzzling the inside of her breast, and Nikita realized that the unknown might not always hold pain and betrayal. There might be joy...passion. 

How long will I have to wait for that? Nikita wondered. Calm down. Better late than never to show Michael you can be patient. 

Nikita stifled a gasp as Michael shifted in his sleep, turning to conform his body on top of hers. 

Now if I can only get Michael to lose _his_ patience...


End file.
